


some nights

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Non-Sexual Submission, POV Wanda Maximoff, kind of character study ish sort of, more just focused on the two of thema nd how they fit together, she neeDs it cause duh, wanda's healing!, which like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21740803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: They’ve grown together in a lot of ways, Wanda thinks. (Not that either of them would ever dare say it aloud.)But it always seemed that from the very start, Natasha justknew.She knew of Wanda’s desire to be owned, to be pushed down and pulled apart and pieced back together by hands infinitely more capable than her own until she wasn’t quite sure why she ever feared falling apart that way, not when there was someone to catch her at the very end of it when all was said and done.(Sometimes, Wanda suspects that Natasha might just be a little bit psychic—or a lot.)
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff & Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 19
Kudos: 113





	some nights

**Author's Note:**

> bro i dont fucking knOW ok dont even looK at me i'm supposed to be studying for finals right now im 
> 
> i'm actually such trash holy shit but also that means i didnt edit so i'm sorry i'm prolly gonna come back later to edit

Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise Wanda nearly as much as it does, that Natasha’s always appeared to know Wanda’s body a great deal more intimately than Wanda ever could. 

She’s an assassin, after all. She was trained relentlessly from an unreasonably young age to meticulously observe everything in her purview down to the most infinitesimal detail, then adapt in accordance to her painstakingly-catalogued findings. All this for the sole sake of the mission—as had been expected from her since well before she understood the magnitude of it all, never mind the devastating consequences that would inevitably follow. 

After everything, Wanda knows all too well the repercussions of being honest. She knows the consequences of giving the most valuable pieces of herself to the wrong people. 

People change, and they leave, and they _die_ , and Wanda’s nowhere near foolish enough to believe that she’s through with losing those that mean the most to her in this life. It doesn't matter how many fights they win, or how vehemently Steve Rogers won’t stop reassuring her she’s safe now (as if even he believes something so painfully idealistic, Captain America or not). 

Similarly, it won’t make a single difference how big her power grows inside her, the way it provides some perversely twisted reassurance that she’s strong enough to split this world in two if she so desires, to break and scream and _cry_ until the very heavens above tremble and the ground splinters at her feet in a blinding flash of crimson luminescence that burns far brighter than any of their broken souls ever could. 

She’s not so naive any longer.

(Though, at times, she’ll admit she misses it—the simplicity of it all: 

Sunny days and warm hugs and laughing until her cheeks hurt because gunfire and falling and _dying_ didn’t scare her like it does now. It just didn’t seem so close and all-encompassing and inevitable like it has ever since that first shell broke through their roof and Wanda knew right then and there that nothing would ever be the same.)

She’s not so ignorant, nor foolish, nor _soft_. Not anymore, because she can’t afford to be. 

But, with Natasha… well. 

With Natasha, it’s different. Always has been, ever since that first time they met under the shadowy pitch-black cover of that abandoned Bengali shipyard, where Wanda’s magic invaded Natasha’s formidable mind and she’d never felt something so _wrong_ before. It was like... like the tenacious front she’d adopted ever since Ultron didn’t feel so crucial anymore, not with _her_.

And, since then, since joining the Avengers and losing Pietro and daily sparring with Natasha at Steve’s insistence that later gave way to long nights (which consisted largely of Wanda being thrown rather violently clear across the gym floors by an endlessly competent Natasha) and messy open-mouthed kisses (surprisingly most always initiated by Natasha directly after training) and sweat-damp bodies writhing against one another dynamically in the dark… she supposes it’s not truly all that much of a surprise that things are different now. That _they_ are different now.

They’ve grown together in a lot of ways, Wanda thinks. (Not that either of them would ever dare say it aloud.)

But it always seemed that from the very start, Natasha just _knew_.

She knew of Wanda’s desire to be owned. She understood the way Wanda ached to be pushed down and pulled apart and pieced back together by hands infinitely more capable than her own until she wasn’t quite sure why she ever feared falling apart that way, not when there was someone to catch her at the very end of it when all was said and done.

(Sometimes, Wanda suspects that Natasha might just be a little bit psychic—or a lot.)

Wanda never thought she’d find hands more adept than her own, hands she _trusted_ to be more adept than her own… not until Natasha. 

She always seemed to know what Wanda was thinking well before even Wanda herself could quite discern it, much less understand it. 

And, somehow, Wanda never seemed to mind. 

In fact, it was just the opposite. After a short spell, she came to _rely_ upon it even despite her better judgement. 

“Come here,” Natasha’d tell her from her spot on the plush burgundy sofa of Wanda’s dimly-lit apartment, her honeyed voice saturated with tenderness and a sort of placid certainty that never failed to ripple straight to the core of Wanda’s bones. 

… and Wanda would, like a moth drawn to a flame: legs moving of their own accord to bring her ever closer to a beauty set ablaze she didn’t quite yet understand, eyes wide with childlike interest. And even when she was there, mere inches away from that which held her spellbound in an unwavering grip… Still, she won’t quite understand what keeps her there. 

She won't understand why she’d allow herself to be so still and defenseless and almost _weak_ , waiting on something—some _one_ —to make her feel different… to make her feel _real_.

She’d kneel, then, without quite knowing why—quietly and demurely upon the carpet at Natasha’s feet, the world forgotten in favor of allowing herself to just simply _be_. There, she can act upon what her deep-seated instinct is telling her rather than giving voice to the overabundance of conflict broiling within her, because God, but she knows that that never ends well. 

They’ll sit there for a while, then, she and Natasha. She never knows for how long, and she never asks Natasha to tell her. 

(The whole point, she thinks, is that she doesn’t know. That she’s something less than lucid for a spell, even if not for very long.)

Natasha would be silent, perhaps meditating (or more than likely merely thinking), and Wanda would do just the opposite. 

It’s… nice. 

Sometimes, though, Wanda doesn’t need _nice_.

Sometimes, Wanda needs a bruising grip around her wrists to remind her that she’s _real_ , that she’s here and tangible in a way that no one can take away from her, not so long as someone’s there to make sure she doesn’t go. 

Sometimes, she just _needs_ it: the inherent ambiguity of handing her body to another who knows it better than she herself ever could; the feeling of someone stronger and seasoned and infinitely more capable than herself physically pinning her down to the mattress and making her body jump and twist and contort until she’s scared she’ll break if she’s made to take a second more of it… Though somehow she always does. Somehow, Natasha always makes certain that she does. 

She needs it like she needs food to live or air to breath: the unforgiving pain of Natasha’s handprints raining down sequentially across her naked bottom to tell her that yes, there are rules in this life no matter how the things that tore her apart didn’t seem to play by them… that yes, there are rules, and yes, it still remains very much provident to abide by them. 

And, somehow, Natasha always knows— _always_. 

She’ll ask Wanda, of course, before engaging in something new. 

Wanda still remembers the first time Natasha’s sure fingers curled around her neck and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until she saw stars. She remembers writhing desperately beneath her lover atop the sheets, sweat dewing her brow whilst Natasha fucked two fingers in and out of her dripping core at a relentless pace. Christ, but the wet sounds reverberating throughout the room were more than lewd enough to make a seasoned harlot blush as she drove Wanda so expertly to her.. 4th (? 5th?) climax of the evening. 

She’d bitten her lower lip raw as she arched so willfully into Natasha’s touch, desperate for more even whilst her muscles screamed with the strain and the sheer sensation of downright overstimulation was more than enough to have her wishing she’d shut her trembling thighs together at least two earth-shattering orgasms ago. The throbbing ache of fatigue thrummed perpetually throughout her being, grating on her already frayed nerves something awful. 

The pain was big, so _so_ big, but the pleasure was bigger, and damn her but she couldn’t help straining her weary thighs to give Natasha better access on every unforgiving thrust. She was absolutely beside herself, sobbing with frantic pleasure when she felt those deft fingers start hitting that spot deep inside her that never failed to send her straight to the edge in seconds, grinding limply against Natasha’s palm in a desperate pursuit of that epochal peak she knew was just within her reach if she could stick it out a little longer. 

She didn’t quite know what she did, then. Really, she wasn’t quite aware of herself, of anything beyond the hard drag of Natasha’s slick fingers against her pulsing walls, the sparks of pleasure erupting behind her eyelids and dimming every last sense in her brain that wasn’t zeroed in entirely upon the sensations of euphoria shaking her body to its very core. 

All she knew was that a second later, Natasha’s calloused palm was pressed against the sweat-damp hollow of her throat, constricting her airway so infinitesimally with every gasping inhale. She didn’t quite know how it’d gotten there, couldn’t quite process anything beyond the immediate sensations pushing her closer and closer to the peak she needed like she needed air to breathe and God help her, but she needed _more_. 

She thinks Natasha might have asked “Are you sure?” in that husky alto overture that Wanda had adored since the very first day they met, and Wanda couldn’t handle it, couldn’t _handle_ that the hand around her throat wouldn’t tighten no matter how she pulled it closer with trembling arms. 

She thinks she begged, then, more helplessly than she ever had in her entire life, entirely unintelligible pleas falling from her kiss-swollen lips in a desperate attempt for more, more, _more_.

And, Natasha… Natasha gave it to her, gradually tightened her strong grip around Wanda’s throat, picking up her pace and grinding her palm against Wanda’s abused clit _just so_ before leaning down to growl “Come for me,” against Wanda’s ear—

Well. Wanda didn’t stand a goddamned _chance_ , then. 

Sometimes, when Wanda’s all alone on the rooftop of her flat and staring out over the twinkling city light and allowing her mind to simply wander, she’ll think that maybe she knows what this means for her… for _them_.

Some nights, the mere thought of it will have Wanda’s throat closing up and her chest physically aching with a kind of hurt she’d sworn she was long since done with. Ice-cold fear will spread throughout her veins that has absolutely nothing to do with the chill of the New York City air all around, and she’ll cry— _sob_ , really, because she’s not ready to do this again. 

She’s not ready to lose this piece of herself, especially not when she thinks she’s only just found it again. 

Some nights, though (especially lately), something about it doesn’t feel quite so scary anymore. 

Some nights, she’ll think about it, and her chest won’t ache so painfully like it did before.

Wanda likes that feeling, she thinks. 

(She hopes Natasha does, too.)

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

**Author's Note:**

> lemme know what u think?
> 
> also here’s the link to my


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